


In Victory

by LandOfMistAndSecrets



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Fight Sex, M/M, Mild Blood, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 18:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20030746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandOfMistAndSecrets/pseuds/LandOfMistAndSecrets
Summary: When he looks back, years later, he'll know deep down that he just never cared to see.





	In Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackHolesandUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackHolesandUnicorns/gifts).

They came upon the ruins late in the day, and though the plumes of smoke they followed and the acrid stench in the air had plainly forecast what they would find, Olberic could not help but find the sight of it shocking, still. He had heard tale of mercenary bands dressed all in black, uniformed like soldiers themselves, decimating towns and villages out at the border. True as well that said borders had effectively receded in recent years, as Hornburg yielded vast swathes of land to no master save the roving criminals that roamed it -- a lawless strip where might made right and cruel men waged bitter war against the kingdom even as they isolated it from its allies and any reprieve. Dark days ahead, spoke the rumours from the west, and the mood in the capital had been grim at times, indeed. 

This black smoking pit, however, sat only a week’s ride from the castle. No one would dismiss its fall as an inevitable tragedy of the tumultuous borderlands. He could hear the uneasy whispers beginning already, as their company lined somberly atop an overlooking hill and beheld the charred remains. 

His Majesty removed his helm and dismounted his horse, and Olberic hastened to follow him, keenly aware of the possibility that those responsible for the destruction might linger still. Further disaster required but one arrow to strike true. He hefted his shield and took his place at the King’s right side, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Erhardt hesitate, still astride his mount, staring grimly at the sight below. 

King Alfred took a knee, and at their backs came the sound of half a hundred men in armor following suit, and then silence.

“May the Gods have mercy,” his Majesty murmured, and though he spoke quietly, his voice carried well in the quiet. 

_Amen,_ Olberic thought, peering over the line of his shield. 

To their left, Erhardt remained where he was, still and quiet and derelict in his duty, his face set like carved stone.

*

Few townsfolk had survived the blaze, and fewer still structures, and so their royal company made camp carefully upwind of the ruin. Runners and scouts brought what survivors they found back with them, limping and haggard and haunted, and Olberic volunteered for patrol after patrol, his fingers itching desperately for some foe to fight, for some enemy to hold responsible and bring to justice at the end of a blade. Alas, the villains had wisely fled -- back toward the borders, no doubt. But that they would strike so deep within the Kingdom at all put everyone on edge. 

By the time he had finished reporting on the meager findings of his patrols, the sun had sunk low beyond a horizon that burned blood red with the remnants of ash and grit in the air. His Majesty looked upon him with tired eyes and dismissed him with a gesture, and left to his own devices he did as he always did and searched Erhardt out, picking his form out easily near the cookfire. 

The man sat alone atop a upturned log, hunched forward with his arms crossed over his legs, staring into the fire as though he could divine all the world’s mysteries from within the flames. Even so absorbed, he startled as Olberic sat beside him, snapping his head up and his chin around to face him. 

“Olberic,” he intoned with frosty inflection, and Olberic raised his brows at him in mute response. Sighing, Erhardt shook his head and let his gaze drop, turning back to the fire. “I am not in search of company,” he clarified, as though it were at all necessary. 

This sort of sourness had often marked their earliest encounters with one another, years prior, when they had first spoken their vows and found themselves in service side by side. Had the mood in camp not been so somber, Olberic might have grinned at the memory even despite the rebuffment. As it was, he merely shrugged. “You may not seek it,” he said, “But I am here to provide it all the same. You needn’t acknowledge it if you are so opposed.” 

Erhardt let out a little snort at this, his nose wrinkling just for a moment in boyish distaste. And then he sighed, again, more heavily. “Have I ever told you, Olberic, that you’ve the mind of a mule, but twice as stubborn?” 

“Thrice, at times,” Olberic informed him. Erhardt was known for these moods, implacable bouts of sour melancholy oft dispelled in the practice yard. But there was no barracks, here, no practice yard, no blunted blades to offer him in mute understanding. ‘Twas a pity, truly. He had no special skill with words. He struggled for them now, and when he found none that seemed sufficient, Erhardt simply grunted a wordless response and they lapsed again into tense silence. 

He did not mind it so much. He had not come here to cajole the man, though questions plenty rattled around in his mind. There was a sullen, personal quality to Erhardt’s anger, compared to the rest of the men. His eyes often burned fierce, true, but the set of his jaw, the tension of his shoulders, the shape of his brow… 

“_Olberic,_” Erhardt hissed at him, turning to face him once more. Olberic blinked, and then felt his face flush hot as he realized he had been studying Erhardt’s face as intently as the other did the cookfire. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, turning it to the dirt at their feet. 

“I understand your feelings,” he found himself saying, desperate to explain. 

“Do you,” Erhardt said, flatly, and it was not quite encouragement, but neither was it not, and so Olberic continued, picking blindly for the right words. 

“It is maddening, this futile feeling, this helpless inaction. Would that those responsible had lingered to meet our arrival.”

“They won’t be found,” Erhardt said, with certainty. Olberic frowned at him, but before he could speak Erhardt held up one hand, forestalling response. “It is a message, Olberic. A swift and brutal letter delivered direct to the heart of our realm, warning of worse to come.” 

“And do you believe they will succeed?” 

“In bringing worse?” He laughed, quietly, the bitterness palpable. “I do,” he admitted. “We haven’t men enough to stop them.” 

It was true enough, and yet hearing it spoken aloud cut deep. He sat up straight, shoulders back, brow furrowed. “Then the men we do have must be better,” he said. “_We_ must be. We swore an oath, and even if we had not, I could not stand by and allow men capable of such atrocities to run roughshod over our homeland.” 

“Peace, Olberic,” Erhardt said, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. Olberic quieted at once, and felt his face burn even hotter. He had meant every word, but the sheer weariness in Erhardt’s tone managed somehow to shame him still. “I did not intend to imply otherwise.” 

“I know,” he said, quietly. “It is only… it is not like you to be so fatalistic.” It was disquieting, in truth. “If anything, this tragedy ought to bolster our resolve. I am certain that His Majesty will --” 

Erhardt gave his shoulder a squeeze, hard enough to bruise. “Enough,” he said, and though his voice was hard, implacable, his eyes burned. He dropped his hand and turned away. “Leave me, Olberic.” 

Silence he could abide, but a direct request was another matter entirely. Stiffly, he nodded and stood, rolling his shoulder where Erhardt had dug his fingers in through his padded armor. 

There was something here, he thought. He had tread upon something he did not understand, and the knowledge that the secrets between them could still construct such a chasm rankled in ways he could never have found the words to explain. 

* 

His Majesty lingered awake into the long hours, speaking to his advisors and his strategists in low murmured tones that occasionally swelled into shouts and impassioned pleas, as war councils often did. Olberic stood dutifully beyond the entrance to their tent, and passers by gave him wide berth, as ever. 

Erhardt did not join him at their post. The lack of his presence did nothing to improve his mood. There were any number of things that might have kept him, important tasks to oversee each one, but Olberic knew the explanation was not so tidy or reasonable. Even so, when the council adjourned at last and his Majesty turned dark-ringed and deep socketed eyes onto him and inquired whether he knew of Erhardt’s whereabouts, he found himself making all the likely excuses. 

It seemed good enough. The King nodded in mute resignation, and Olberic followed dutifully at his shoulder as he retired to the royal pavilion at the heart of their camp. There another of the royal guard granted him leave, and so he retired to the long tents where the men lay packed in beneath the thick canvas in long, orderly rows. He took his time removing the rest of his armor, dressing down to wool and leathers.

And still, Erhardt was nowhere to be found. 

The hour was late, and Olberic was eager to put this day behind him in the hope that the next might be better -- but he was not so much a fool as to try sleeping with such unsettled worries weighing on his heart. 

The watchmen gave him long looks as he approached the edges of their camp, but he was Olberic Eisenberg, the Unbending Blade, and they did not question his intentions. 

What those intentions actually were crystallized only some distance along the dusty road away from the tents and torchlight. He turned himself in the direction of the hill overlooking the ruined town they had come in on, walking fast. The moon hung high overhead, full and bright, and if there were any skulking rogues or wandering beasts about they wisely kept their distance. He had foregone his armor, but not his sword -- and he rarely needed more than one swing.

Erhardt, of course, overheard his approach well before he crested the summit. 

“Olberic,” he greeted him, and though he kept his back to him, there was a certain warmth in his voice that had not been there at the cookfire. Olberic found himself surprised at the depth of the relief he felt, realizing that.

“Erhardt,” he replied, cautiously, pausing there with so much distance between them, still. “I thought I might find you here.” 

“Still, I’m surprised,” he said. “I figured you’d balk at the thought of leaving his Majesty so… unattended.” 

He could not help but bristle at that. A fact that Erhardt well knew, no doubt. “The royal guard will suffice to guard his Majesty’s slumber,” he grumbled. “Not to mention, anyone who might do him harm must first infiltrate the camp entire to reach their quarry.” 

“A monumental task, indeed,” Erhardt murmured, so softly Olberic only just picked out the words. He stook a few slow steps nearer. When Erhardt opted not to respond, either in the positive or the negative, he shook himself and closed the rest of the distance to stand beside him atop the hill. 

And winced at the sight of the ruined town, below. 

Erhardt seemed to notice the motion, his expression, and spared him a glance at last. 

“Olberic,” he sighed. “Have I ever told you where I’m from?” 

And Olberic frowned as he realized -- he had not. He had known Erhardt did not hail from the capital, of course. His accent was more southerly than most. 

“Not that I can recall,” he said. 

Erhardt nodded. “It is no place you will have heard of,” he said. “An inconsequential southern town, small and known for nothing in particular. A waypoint along the king’s road. It sees little traffic.” 

“Still, if it is your home, I must think highly of it,” he said. 

Erhardt studied him for a moment, his expression shuttering, entirely unreadable. He raised a hand and ran it in his hair as he always did when he was agitated, and then he crossed his arms over his chest and turned bodily about to face him. “You must understand, however, that is located perilously near the border wilds.” 

“...Ah,” Olberic said, softly. “Then, such sights…” he gestured to the scene below. 

“Not uncommon, even when I was but a boy. I imagine it has only worsened with time.” 

He realized that he could not recall Erhardt ever having taken leave to return home, even for a short visit. Perhaps this was why. 

“I am sorry,” he said, softly. “Such things should never happen.” He gave him a wary look. “If you were to petition the council --” 

A dry laugh greeted this, cutting him off well before he could finish. He flushed. Of course, it was ridiculous to assume Erhardt had not thought of all manner of recourse, himself. Likely it had been in the hopes of preventing exactly this sort of violence that he had sworn himself to the knighthood to begin with. His words melted off into an awkward cough, and then he merely clasped his hands behind his back and stood silently, awaiting his response. 

It came, eventually, a sighed declaration on the heels of his insincere laughter. “You have ever been so,” Erhardt said, waving a dismissive hand. “Such a godsdamned idealist! Listen well, now.” He gestured to the ruins below, his expression taking on a grim bent. “_That_ is the real world. We may forestall it with blades and blood, but even men such as you and I are not invincible. They will only grow bolder, from here…” he shook his head, his long hair moving with the gesture and the cool night breeze that curled around them from the north.

“Then we must be more bold, in turn,” Olberic insisted. “You cannot admit defeat in advance of the battle! You are better than that.” 

“I have no intention of admitting defeat,” he said, sharply. “And indeed, you speak true. I am better than most.” His lips quirked into a familiar half smile, then, and he inclined his chin in Olberic’s direction. “Better than you, soft city dweller that you are.” 

“Soft!” Olberic scoffed, falling into the familiar rhythm of their banter with some relief. “Draw your blade, and we shall see how soft I am.” 

“Such is how all conversations with you seem to end,” Erhardt said. The sharp edge to his words had faded, now, replaced instead with a teasing lilt. Olberic frowned at him. 

“I find more clarity in the aftermath of a good duel than I ever could in conversation,” he said. “But I needn’t explain that to you.” 

Erhardt nodded, his lips turning up into a familiar smirk. “Olberic, the Unbending… they ought to call you the Unquenchable, your thirst for battle being what it is.” And then he arched his brows, the quirk of his lips taking on an outright malicious sort of edge. “Besides, I have made you bend for me often enough, have I not?”

He flushed crimson, no doubt exactly as Erhardt wished him to, and scrambled futilely for a response. He settled for the only one that could possibly suffice - reaching for the hilt of his blade at his back. Erhardt, for his own part, laughed long and deep at the gesture, his expression, or perhaps both, even when Olberic drew and stepped away to shift into battle stance. 

“Draw,” he insisted. 

“Is there any problem you cannot solve on the end of your sword?” Erhardt asked him, but though his voice maintained that teasing tone he knew so well, there was an underlying iron edge to it as well. He drew smooth and sure, and there was something almost intimate about the gesture, the hiss of steel on leather, the way their twin blades reflected the moonlight. Olberic gave him a fierce grin. 

“I have yet to encounter one,” he said. 

“That you know of,” Erhardt agreed. Olberic’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened to ask what exactly he meant by that, but Erhardt struck first -- as always -- and the question evaporated into the lines of his parry. Steel rang sweetly, and he clenched his teeth against the impact of the blow, gathered his strength, and threw him off with a bellow that no doubt carried itself all the way back to camp. 

Erhardt staggered back, laughed again, and threw himself forward, relentless. 

Such had he always fought: fierce and furious, a glorious, blazing star burning fast and bright. The man gave no mind for defense, pressing on with blows that suffered little for strength despite their speed, driving Olberic backward step by inexorable step. His method had ever been to overwhelm his opponent before they could mount any sort of counter, outlasting even a conservative defender through sheer strength of will. Few indeed possessed the fortitude to contest him.

Olberic, of course, counted himself among them. 

He caught and parried each strike, anticipating the blows as much as he reacted to them, enduring patiently until an opportunity presented -- a high, arcing swing, too bold, too eager. He caught Erhardt’s blade near the hilt and stepped in close on the recoil, driving the pommel up in a vicious thrust that might have shattered the nose of a lesser foe. Erhardt pulled back at the last moment, catching a glancing blow off one of his high, fine cheekbones, instead. 

And they pulled back, dancing away from one another, breathing hard and heavy. Erhardt raised gloved fingers to trace lightly over the already darkening bruise, shook his head, and charged forward once more without a word -- ah, but he hardly needed to speak. His wild grin said everything.

Keenly aware of the fact that these were no practice blades and he had left the bulk of his armor in camp, Olberic ducked the blow and stepped aside, blood surging, readying himself for the flurry to come. Erhardt never disappointed. The blows came fast and hard, jarring him from wrist to shoulder, making his very teeth ache in his head. They danced forward and back, gaining steps on each other only to be driven back soon after, perfectly matched.

When they pulled apart a second time, chests heaving, Erhardt had another pretty bruise decorating his face, and Olberic winced with each gulping breath he took courtesy of a knee driven deep into his belly. He should have known better than to divest himself of so much of his armor, he thought, raising an arm to mop sweat from his eyes with a sleeve. 

“I would yield, were I you,” Erhardt said, as they circled each other. “I would hate to have to explain to His Majesty how and why I was forced to gut his favorite champion so unceremoniously.” 

“His Majesty favors you,” Olberic rasped, watching him move. He knew all of his tells, by now. “Still, you are free to try.”

“Like a fish,” Erhardt elaborated, unhelpfully. His eyes betrayed him, glancing to his left just before he struck, and Olberic blocked the blow easily. True enough that his position was the more vulnerable one, so long as Erhardt remained armed. 

Best to remedy that, he thought. He feigned a lunge, Erhardt went low to counter him, and Olberic anticipated the movement, catching his right wrist in hand and twisting, hard. Erhardt let out a pained gasp, but even then, he kept his grip and his head, as well. A less experienced man might have panicked and flailed, but Erhardt merely struck out with his offhand, catching Olberic full in the face with his closed fist. 

Pain erupted from the point of impact, his ears ringing and vision blurring, but even as he stumbled back he yanked Erhardt bodily forward with him. In a contest of pure strength, Olberic ever had the advantage, and this time was no different than any other. Erhardt lost his balance and then his footing, and they both pitched over, tangling together in the dirt. Both swords went skittering, and they clung to each other as they went tumbling arse over end some distance down the hill. 

No time to regroup. Erhardt had his armor, but Olberic had the better maneuverability without his own, and he twisted himself to take full advantage. He threw Erhardt bodily onto his back, and then moved to pin him down even as the other man made to roll in the direction of their discarded weapons. Panting heavily, he forced Erhardt’s chin up and pressed his forearm firmly to his throat. Erhardt’s own ragged gasps cut off with his air supply, and even still he struggled beneath him. If Olberic had been a lesser man in size or strength or sheer ability, it might have even worked. 

Seconds stretched between them, until finally, Erhardt’s legs went still and he gave Olberic’s shoulder a rough tap, yielding the fight. Olberic loomed over him, and though he loosed the press of his arm he remained where he was, grinning down into Erhardt’s sweat-streaked, purple-red face. 

“Gods,” Erhardt groaned, when he’d recovered the breath he needed to speak. The fight had lasted only a few minutes in its entirety, but Olberic felt as though he’d been fighting for hours. “Stubborn, yes, and _strong_ \-- you’re an ox, Olberic -- a damned heavy one!” He glared up at him. “Have you found your cursed clarity, then?”

Olberic licked his lips, and tasted blood. He could not have possibly missed the way Erhardt’s gaze flickered to catch the motion. A certain madness took hold of him, then -- never would he have called it _clarity_, however alike it seemed -- and he reached up to grab a fistful of Erhardt’s long, lovely hair, gripping hard close to the roots. Erhardt made a surprised sound and then groaned with pain… and, perhaps, something more. His eyes were burning, again, blazing fierce and bright. 

“You are magnificent,” Olberic said, quietly and sincerely. He had the immense pleasure of seeing Erhardt’s eyes widen and his lips part, shock written all over his features. He tightened the fingers he had tangled in that glorious mane to a tight fist, eliciting another pained, eager groan from him, taking with it the last of his resolve. Hastily, hungrily, he pressed their mouths together, a thrill to rival the heat of battle surging through him as he felt Erhardt part his lips before the assault, heard and felt his hot breath against him as he laughed up into his mouth. 

When he pulled back, he found he’d left a messy smear of his own blood over his lips and chin. He rather enjoyed the sight of it, marking him. 

“You aren’t meant to reward a man for losing, Olberic,” Erhardt advised him. “This is why no one takes you seriously.” 

Olberic scoffed at him, and then, rather than trying to find at all adequate words, merely ducked his head back down for another kiss, toothier and even more thorough than the last. Erhardt’s tongue met his eagerly, and simultaneously, he threw impossibly strong arms around him, crushing him into the unyielding steel of his breastplate. He felt fingers grip the back of his shirt as tightly as Olberic still gripped that fistful of hair, and -- Gods, it was easy as anything, losing himself in the embrace as much as the bloody kiss. 

And, of course, the moment he let his guard down, the very _second_ Erhardt sensed an opening, he took full advantage, bucking beneath him. Olberic had precisely enough time to emit a surprised grunt before Erhardt had their positions handily reversed. He landed hard on his back, driving all the breath from his lungs, and looked up with faint spots in his eyes at Erhardt’s flushed, triumphant face. 

“Ah,” he wheezed, shaking his head to clear it, with little success. “A dishonorable trick.” 

“This, too, is why no one takes you seriously,” Erhardt informed him, and then he sat up and reached down to grip Olberic’s collar in his fist. “The victor ought to demand spoils,” he said. 

Olberic reached up and circled his wrist with his own hand. “Victory is its own reward,” he insisted, and Erhardt tipped his head back and laughed again, long and deep and just a bit wild. 

“Every day,” he said, tightening his fist in the fabric at his throat, “Every day I think to myself that a man like you should not possibly exist. Olberic… ah, Olberic.” He shook his head. “You are too good. Too honorable. This world, this -- gods-forsaken hell we’ve sworn to defend…” he trailed off, eyes closing. He swallowed hard, and Olberic watched the line of his throat, the bob of his adam’s apple, transfixed. “You deserve better than what it will deliver you, in the end.” He opened his eyes. “Not I. But you…” 

He could not follow his meaning, try though he might. “Whatever I deserve,” he insisted, “You do as well. We are two halves of --” 

“No.” Erhardt released his collar, letting his head drop back into the dirt. “_That,_ we are not.” 

Olberic gazed up at him, studying his shuttered expression, trying without much success not to take the correction -- rejection -- overly personal. Erhardt could deny the truth with his words, perhaps, but as ever, actions spoke the truth better and more efficient. Erhardt met his eyes in silence, tension spooling out between them, and then he hunched his shoulders and set his fingers to Olberic’s clasps and buttons, loosening his belt. 

“Erhardt --” Olberic began, moving as though to sit up, but Erhardt merely pushed him back down with a sharp shove and continued on, leather rasping against wool. Olberic felt his face go hot, and indeed, a certain surge of interest elsewhere, particularly when Erhardt yanked at his laces and let out a frustrated little growl, lifting his hands to remove his gloves with his teeth. He spat them carelessly aside, and Olberic groaned as those newly freed fingers wrapped around him, down below. 

“To the victor goes the spoils, Olberic,” Erhardt said, in scolding tones. “Let me show you.” 

“The camp,” he panted, though he made no further move save to squirm desperately in his grip. “Erhardt,” he growled. “Anyone might come upon us, here...”

“Then let them,” Erhardt said, squeezing him just so, stroking down the length of him, and Olberic made a breathy, groaning sound and let his hips roll up and his eyes roll back with pleasure. There was no stopping the man, once he started -- and in truth Olberic had always preferred actions to words in this particular sort of sense as much as any. 

Erhardt knew that, too. 

“You are -- lacking in discipline,” Olberic growled up at him, even as he rocked himself upward, encouraging further attentions. “If ever anyone thinks less than well of you, that will be the reason why.” 

“So self assured,” Erhardt said, halting in his ministrations. Olberic bit his tongue to keep from protesting the sudden lack of stimulation. “You think me impulsive. Always acting so rashly, with no mind for what the future holds…”  
“I cannot say you are changing my mind on the matter, with this.” 

“With this,” Erhardt agreed, resuming his attentions with slow, even strokes, thumbing over the slit at the tip of him, making him hiss and sigh and groan. “With my kind attention to your magnificent prick, you mean.” 

A wave of heat went through him, and he thought again of the camp below -- it was not so far, and their voices might well carry in the quiet of the hour. Gods above. He could not even fathom the consequences should they be discovered, and yet somehow the thought of it only served to heighten his desire. It was the same for Erhardt, no doubt, chasing the thrill in the threat of discovery.

“Your mouth is like to get us into trouble,” he said, and he opened his eyes in time to see Erhardt’s eyes flash with a familiar mix of amusement and desire, both.

“Would you prefer I put it to some other use, then?” He tilted his head, that lovely hair of his falling over his shoulders. “Let me think, now. What other task could possibly occupy it, busy as it prefers to be?” 

“I wonder,” Olberic said, only just managing to keep his voice -- mostly -- even. The man was talented with his fingers, true, but his tongue, his mouth, with that pretty hair caught up between his fingers… 

“No ideas, Olberic?” Erhardt teased him, and it was pleasing as well to hear the way his breath came faster, now, to see him so affected simply by the act of pleasuring him. “No requests, no demands? Come now, there must be something.” 

“You know perfectly well --” 

“And yet, I should like to hear you say it.” 

“-- what you will do and what you will not!” He lifted his head to fling the words, and then let it fall back to the ground with a throaty groan. Ah, Gods, but the man knew precisely how to please him, and how to frustrate him in kind. It was ever his joy to tease. 

“Say it, Olberic,” he repeated, implacable, slowing his strokes to an agonizing pace. “Beg sweetly for it, and perhaps I shall indulge you, just this once.” 

Olberic laughed, then, strained and breathless. “Of course,” he said. “Having lost the battle, you seek another sort of victory in its stead.” 

“Far from it,” Erhardt assured him, his voice a low, promising rumble. He shifted his position and bent himself forward, pressing his mouth to the heated skin low on his stomach, just above the line of wiry hair below. Olberic clenched his jaw and let his breath out slowly, slowly, shivering at the warm caress of his breath and the implicit promise of more. “I told you before, didn’t I? This is a _reward_, Olberic, if you’ve sense enough to claim it.” He ran his tongue in a wet, lazy line over his skin, and Olberic could not help himself, then; he fairly whimpered with want. 

“Your mouth,” he gasped. “Your mouth, Erhardt.” He reached down for him, slid his fingers into that soft, beautiful hair at last. 

“What of it?” Erhardt whispered, inching downward, breathing hard, his voice so sweetly strained. Olberic tightened his fingers into fists, pushing him downward, and Erhardt laughed -- but he complied, sinking slowly, too slow by far. His cock ached for attention, for heat and pressure and the soft slide of an eager, clever tongue.

“Please,” he groaned.

“I’m going to need more than _that_, now --” 

Olberic cut him off with a little grunt, twisting his fingers sharply in his hair. Erhardt gasped, his breath ghosting over Olberic’s skin, so maddeningly near where he wished for him to be. “Use it for my pleasure,” he demanded. “No more words. Actions, Erhardt, damn you. I want to feel your lips, your tongue, ah, Gods, you know what I want of you, what I need.” 

For a moment, naught but breathless panting stirred the space between them. And then a low, throaty chuckle, the sharp press of his nose into the soft skin of his belly, and then lower, lower, until -- 

“Erhardt,” he gasped, tilting his head up so he could see it, drink in every moment. Erhardt met his eyes with a knowing smirk, but he spoke not another word. Instead, his lips parted and he laved his tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing a wet, searing line from the base of him to the very tip. “Yes,” Olberic sighed, watching it all, committing every detail to memory. “More,” he whispered. “I beg of you -- more.” 

It was the magic word, of course. _Beg._ Erhardt favored him with a wolfish grin, and then he bent his neck and wrapped his lips obediently around him, cracking his jaw wide to accommodate his girth. They both gave throaty groans, then, their voices mingling together in the quiet night, and it was all Olberic could do to keep from thrusting up into the wet, wonderful heat of his mouth.

Erhardt reached forward to grip the base of him in one hand, and the other he clamped viciously into his thigh as he worked his way further down his length. Olberic moaned encouragements and assurances, twisting and pulling his fingers through his hair, breathing fast and shallow and desperate, indeed. 

And Erhardt pulled off him with a ragged gasp of his own, his lips wet with thick saliva. “Gods,” he breathed, just the one word, but the reverence with which he said it drove fingers of molten heat into his very core. Wasting no time, Erhardt returned to his task, closing his lips around him once more, applying his tongue in teasing swirls and stripes. 

Twice more he had to pause midway down, nostrils flaring, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, flashed Olberic a knowing grin, and then he sank down around him with renewed determination, taking him damn near to the hilt in full. Olberic felt his throat work as he swallowed around him, felt his tongue move in desperate spasms along the underside of his cock, and -- Gods, the sight of it as much as the sensation, the knowledge that it was _Erhardt_ servicing him so -- his breath caught and his blood surged. 

“Erhardt,” he breathed, the name leaving his lips like a litany. Erhardt held himself there, face flushed dark with effort, his throat working desperately and blissfully around him until he could stand no more, until he had to pull himself off to breathe and choke and sputter.

“Olberic,” he rasped, his voice wet and ragged. “Ah, Olberic, damn you,” he muttered, gripping him with his fingers once more, stroking him fast and hard. Olberic let his hips stutter upward in that grip, and soon enough mere stutters became thrusts in truth. Erhardt lowered himself back to his task, sealing his lips around the sensitive head, sucking lightly and teasing his slit with his tongue, fingers moving in time with his thrusts all the while. 

Olberic groaned and whimpered and squirmed beneath him, hauling himself up on his elbows to watch, and Erhardt met his gaze, glorious and defiant and resplendent somehow still even as he serviced him. He could feel his peak approaching, feel the heat of it building deep within, and he threw his head back to get the hair out of his eyes, panting upward at the open sky above. 

“Close, now,” he warned. “So close, Erhardt, so good, perfect, yes…” he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his words dissolving into formless sounds as Erhardt quickened his pace in plain response. 

He could have resisted it, could have bit his tongue and focused his thoughts and held off, making him work harder and longer for his prize… but that was more Erhardt’s way than his own. Instead he gave himself over to the building pressure, crying his pleasure aloud as he released, entirely heedless of whoever might overhear it. And the sounds Erhardt made as he closed his eyes and sealed his lips in place and swallowed every drop -- Gods above. 

He collapsed backward, breathless and spent, looking up at yet hardly seeing the moon and the stars overhead. 

From below, a pleased sort of humming sound, and the soft caress of Erhardt’s tongue, cleaning whatever was left of his mess. He closed his eyes and groaned, softly. Even that gentle touch was too much, but he dared not protest it. 

“There, now,” Erhardt said, when he was done. “Was that so hard?” 

“I swear,” Olberic sighed in quiet rebuke. “One day, I swear, you will be the death of me.” 

“Perhaps,” Erhardt agreed, and there was a soft rustle of cloth and leather as he tucked him back into his trousers, threading up his laces anew. “One day, perhaps. But until that day, Olberic…” he sighed. “Take your damned pleasure where it’s due.” He pulled the laces tight, and then he saw to his belt, too, fastening it tight. When Olberic managed to open his eyes and tilt his head high enough to see him, he had sat well back already, retrieving his discarded gloves. 

He looked a proper mess, really -- cheeks flushed and face bruised, lips swollen and hair all in a tangle, and beautiful for it all as ever.

Erhardt hauled himself up to his feet, and bent down to offer him a hand.

“Ever the gentleman,” Olberic muttered, accepting the aid. 

Erhardt, of course, only laughed. 

*

They returned together, the Twin Blades side by side, and none so much as raised an eyebrow. They were beyond reproach, above chastisement, and if anyone had heard them -- well. Their bruises told a certain tale, even as the looks they exchanged told quite another, and the breeze carried the smoldering stench of ruin far downwind.


End file.
